


Flowers in Chelsea

by BarPurple



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 15:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: Six years before the End of the World Crowley and Aziraphale take a trip to do a little research.





	Flowers in Chelsea

The Chelsea Flower Show has been held every year since 1913, apart from a few years off during the World Wars when flowers unfortunately weren't top priority for anyone. Crowley has attended every year, including 1932 when he was in a bad mood after long and tedious meeting with Head Office. The torrential rain that year may, or may not, have been a direct result of Crowley's bad mood, or it could simply have been because rain, in June, in England simple happens.

This year, which is six years before the End of the World, Crowley is not alone as he peruses the peonies. Aziraphale is with him, and here they come now bickering by the begonias.

“...coming here for years, decades, why aren't I going in as the gardener?”

Aziraphale turned his attention away from the flower he had been smiling at; “Because I won the coin toss,” - he leaned closer to Crowley and lowered his voice, - “and besides we're are trying to keep the influences on the boy balanced, and we know what happened last time you tempted someone in a garden, hum?”

Crowley hissed, but shrugged his shoulders; “Yeah, okay. Thing is, why did you want to come here for tips? You used to guard the Eastern Gate of THE Garden.”

“Guarding isn't gardening.” He chuckled at the pleasing sound of his words, and pretended not to notice the way Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Why do you come here? I wouldn't have thought there would be much opportunity for temptation here.”

Crowley snorted as they resumed ambling between the displays; “There is so much opportunity for temptation here, but it's a bit like shooting thingies, erm frogs, frogs? Yeah shooting frogs in a barrel, what with all the envy...”

The lady in the neat pastels that Crowley is pointing out to Aziraphale is Mrs Jean Harrington-Smyth, a long-standing member of both the local WI and Britain in Bloom Gardening Club in the small Shropshire town she calls home. As Crowley has noted she is seething in envy, an envy which in centred around the success of her friend and neighbour's success with clematis. Crowley may have confused his creatures, but the essence of his point is correct; it would be a waste of his Hell-given abilities to tempt her toward evil when she is already doing fine on her own.

“...and the jealousy...”

Crowley is now referring to Mr Patrick Cathcart, who is trailing along after his husband of ten years, Ian, and wishing that he received the attention Ian pays to the roses. Patrick spends days like this plotting mass herbicide, and before the day is out he will be escorted from the show ground for viciously twisting the flowers from a fine example of Rosa 'Reine des Viololtes'.

“... and, ooh wow, look at the murderous thoughts on them.”

This pair of young men, who are unaware of the impressed grin they are receiving from Crowley, and the shocked gasp from Aziraphale, are Jonathan Davis and Alan Jones, cousins who are plotting to murder their Uncle Stephen in order to take over his garden tool business. Neither of them know that their cousin Sandy is already slowly poisoning Uncle Stephen with the same goal in mind. The resulting triple murder will grab headlines for weeks and inspire a double episode of 'Midsomer Murders'. 

It should be noted that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley have the gift of prophecy. They do not know exactly what these people will do, but they can sense the urges that will drive them to their actions. It's a skill shared by all angels and demons, and is going to be completely unnecessary for the next ninety-seven seconds.

Here, strolling through the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea before him, is Britain's favourite gardener. He is happily chatting to the two awe-struck competition winners trailing along best him. No extra senses, ethereal or occult are required to feel the wave of lust his presence creates in the crowd, specifically in the section of the crowd comprised of ladies of a certain age.

Crowley and Aziraphale do have ethereal and occult senses. It is difficult to explain their experience of this sudden tidal wave of lust, but imagine that you are sitting in a silent library and suddenly previously unnoticed speakers blast out Queen's set at Live Aid. You would be more than a little shaken, which explains why Crowley and Aziraphale are both wincing.

“Oh my goodness, yes I understand why temptation would be so easy here,” Aziraphale fussed with his bow-tie, still trying to gather himself, - “He is very good though, isn't he? I stock all of his books.”

“Hum? Never read them. Seen him on the telly,” -Crowley sniffed and rolled his shoulders, - “he's a manic at pruning, trees don't stand a chance.”

A group of those ladies of that certain age were giggling over the photos they had taken of their favourite gardener.

“Oh he's so much more in person!”

“I know, he could give my lady garden a good turning over any day of the week.”

As ladies moved away, still giggling, Aziraphale turned to Crowley; “What is a lady garden? Do they have one on display here?”

Crowley cleared his throat, and considered the question for a few seconds, “Probably not,” - he sighed as his friends shoulders sagged with disappointment, - “Ah, but they do have these tiny fruit trees that grow full size fruit. Even pears.”

Aziraphale lit up to the point he was almost wriggling with glee; “I like pears.”

“Come on then angel.”

As Crowley and Aziraphale make their way in search of pears a ruckus is breaking out in the rose section. This being the Chelsea Flower Show it is a restrained and polite ruckus, but it will result in Mr Patrick Cathcart sleeping on the sofa for the rest of the week.


End file.
